Here as the lady stood, full oft her eye
Would from that scene of lonely beauty rove,
To where a narrow pathway opened nigh
Into a sheltered, and smooth-sanded cove,

"I little deemed it ill," fair Eva said, "That I should smile upon my Walter's friend; But by that law most sacred was I led, Which bids us to the stranger first attend, Study his every wish, and to his fancies bend."

"Eva! did thy heart once recall the hour, When whispered first thy vows in this wild scene? Methinks thy memory should have ample power To silence idle subterfuge! I ween

The host more meet than thou to tend his guest had been.

Unto a guest; did not I see thee bend

"Not thine th' attention custom doth command

A pleased ear to his flatteries? thy hand By heaven, he pressed! Why weep? In vain we lend

A lure to charm the bird which we have ceased to tend!"

There was one star yet twinkling in the sky,
Sweet Venus, to that star did Eva turn;
"Walter! to yon fair planet lift thine eye,
For thou from her thy best reproof may'st learn,
Albeit in her blue track so silently she burn.

"Though from one sun she own her source of light,
Yet softly gilds she many an ocean isle;
Illumes the peasant's cot, and glimmers bright
On this our lowly path; so may I smile
On all, but thou my soul's glad sun the while!"

Vain was her soft reproof to chase the cloud

Lo! on that path her eye attentive sees
A form advancing; swift, with modest hand,
She draws her mantle round her, for the breeze
Had been too rude; and closer clasps the band
That binds her wavy locks, too roughly fanned.

Harsher than wont, to-day, the greeting falls
Of her loved Walter on her listening ear:
"Wherefore has Eva left those lighted halls?
Surely some dark magician's spells have here

So parted they-for morning's twilight shroud Rolled back at the glad sun's arising now, And fell in mist around the mountain's brow.

Oh thus they parted! from the sea-beach lone,
Scene of their love on many a happier day;
Love which to night its first brief cloud had known.
They turned; he restless still to stray
With hurried steps; she to her bower to weep her
grief away.

Yes, Eva, thou may'st weep! prophetic tears!

appear.

Thus as her lover spoke, she saw his brow
Grow dark, and in his frowning eyes the fire
Of smothered passion lurk; sweet Eva, thou,
Cause of such angry storm! shall not his ire
Fly at thy voice, more soft than notes of silver lyre?

"Sweet to mine ear," she said, "the wild waves fall,

And soft as music's strain hath ever been;
And dearer far than yonder festive hall

To Eva's heart, this tranquil, well-known scene;
How drear, alas! if thou, its sun, art unserene.'

Sternly he spoke-" Why keep thy tryste with me?
Why linger not with yon gay Spaniard still?
If it doth grieve thee, Eva, that to thee
Thy Walter justly speaks his sense of ill,
Why here recall the vows thou scornest to fulfil ?"

To-night thou mournest the ungenerous fears Of thy true-love; Eva! thy tears may flow, Soon shall thy heart true cause of sorrow know!

Glad visions are before thee, day-dreams bright
Of joyous hours to come, when tears no more
Shall dim affection; when, love's fairy light
Shall softly gild all thy life's pathway o'er;
Alas! that thou should'st see that path a sunless
shore !

And he, thy destined bridegroom, by whose side Smiling thou deem'st thy future place shall be; Dark is his fortune! thou, his promised bride, Shalt watch him plant those piercing thorns for thee, Which, when thou look'st for flowers, thy weeping eyes shall see !

(To be concluded in our next.)

LONGFELLOW.

Dora Wilmington sat alone in her pretty drawing-room. She was bending over a book, but not reading; and now and then a tear fell upon its pages. It was Christmas timeChristmas, with all its pleasant and home-loving associations; her own birthday was on the 27th of December, and a merry party of friends and relatives had been invited to celebrate it. Dora was eighteen. Being her father's housekeeper, it was only natural that she should have a great deal to do and think of; and yet, there she sat in that low rocking-chair, idle and weeping. Presently the door opened, and a young girl enveloped in furs, entered with that want of ceremony which characterizes an intimate acquaintance. Caroline Howard was the sister of Dora's betrothed husband, and herself on the eve of a happy marriage. She was older than Dora, and not the very best companion for one so easily led as our heroine-but then she was Vincent Howard's sister.

"Why, my dear Dora! what has happened? You have been crying! But I think I can guess the reason. Your father has refused to let you accompany us this evening? Well, I am sorry, and so will Vincent be. Did you mention that mamma and papa were going with us?"

"No," replied Dora; "papa was in a great hurry, and the carriage was waiting for him at the door."

"Do you think that he would have consented if you had done so?"

"Yes, I cannot see what other objection than their absence he could possibly have had-and yet he spoke very earnestly."

"Poor Vincent will be so disappointed!" observed his sister. "He has been to the theatre | to secure places, as it is expected to be very full to-night; and Edward Grey is to accompany us but all our pleasure will be quite spoiled if you do not go."

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that he was to start so early, and had no fear of a refusal.”

"Does Mr. Wilmington return to-night?" asked Caroline.

"No, not until to-morrow morning." "Then go with us, Dora, and he need never know it."

"Oh, Caroline! Impossible!"

"I would venture anything," continued her companion, "that he never asks you a single question, or refers again to the subject.'

"No," said Dora, "he will think it enough that he bid me remain at home. Caroline, I dare not disobey him! Will you tell Vincent this, and how sorry I am? But do not tell him that I was silly enough to cry about it," added she, resolutely dashing away the tears from her eyes, and looking up with a rainbow smile into the face of her companion. "And now let us talk of something else."

But Caroline was not prepared to yield the point so easily; and the worst of it was that Dora's heart pleaded along with her, even against her own better judgment, until she arrived at length at the conclusion that there could be no great harm in going, just for once. She meant to tell her father afterwards, and she did not think that he would be angry-he never was with her which should have made her the more careful not to grieve or disobey him.

"I am sure," argued Dora, "that if he were at home, and knew how I had set my mind upon going, and how disappointed Vincent would be, and that your dear parents were to accompany us, he would not hesitate a moment. But I could not bear to deceive him. I shall tell him the first thing on his return, with my arms about his neck; and after a whole day's absence, he will not have the heart to chide.”

"Only go," said Caroline, "and you can please yourself about mentioning it afterwards." "I wonder what Vincent would say," observed Dora.

"Do you really wonder, Dora?" asked her companion, archly.

"Whether he would think it right, I mean." “ If not he shall come and tell you so himself. But I must go now; and be sure that you are ready when we call for you."

Dora returned to her book and her rocking

chair. She tried to read, but could not for thinking; while conscience, with its still, small voice, spoke audibly-but, alas, in vain! It served, however, to render her restless and ill at ease. Every knock at the door made her start. She almost wished that Vincent would come and reason with her, as he sometimes did, in his sweet, gentle way (for Dora was often wild and wilful); and she thought how readily she would now give up going to the theatre if he desired, or believed it to be right. But he never came. Caroline took care, for reasons of her own, not to tell him the real circumstances of the case; and Dora wanted resolution to act for herself.

Very beautiful did Dora Wilmington look as she stood before her mirror in her simple muslin dress, with one white rose twined amidst her dark and glossy curls. And she knew it well; exulting only because she was going to meet him in whose eyes she alone cared to shine. Her love for Vincent Howard was true and devoted, mingled with reverence. It was the love of the weak and erring, for the strongminded and the good.

Dora turned pale when she heard the carriage drive up to the door; but she had no time for thought or deliberation. They were already late. Vincent sprang out, wrapped her shawl carefully around her, and in another moment she was comfortably seated, and shaking hands with his father and mother, who already looked upon her as their own child.

"We were almost afraid that we should not have seen you," said the latter. "Mr. Wilmington called in for a few moments last evening, and he seemed to have a great objection to your accompanying us—a presentiment, as he called it, of evil; but Vincent laughed him out of it. I sent Caroline this morning on purpose to ascertain whether you had obtained permission, and if not we had intended to put off our visit to the theatre, for the present, and ask you to spend the evening quietly with us."

"For Heaven's sake do not betray me!" whispered Caroline, as they passed up the staircase. 'I had set my mind upon coming here to-night. And after all there is no great harm done!"

"You are not well, dearest," observed Vincent, as they seated themselves in the box, and the light fell upon Dora's pale face.

"No, not very; but do not notice me, and perhaps it will pass off."

It is difficult to escape notice when with those who love us; and the affectionate anxiety evinced by Mrs. Howard sent a fresh pang to the heart of the repentant girl.

"I am sorry now," said she, "that I happened

to mention your father's reason for refusing at first to let you accompany us, since you had not heard it before; but I did not think that you had been so superstitious."

Dora smiled faintly.

"I almost wish that Mr. Wilmington had persisted in his objections," said Vincent; "and then she would have been quietly at home with us, instead of at this hot, noisy theatre." "Who knows," observed his father, gaily, "but Dora might have rebelled?"

"No, no, father, she is too good and dutiful a daughter for that. And a good daughter, they say," added Vincent, archly, and yet with feeling, "is sure to make a good wife."

Dora's pale cheek crimsoned with shame. She almost fancied that they knew all, and were talking at her; but one timid glance at the frank and smiling countenance of her lover dissipated the suspicion, while it increased her remorse. "How loud and harsh the music is to-night," observed Dora.

"I was just thinking that it was unusually sweet," replied her lover. "But then you have the headache, my poor Dora!" He did not know that she had the heart-ache also, which is much worse, and sure to make discord of the finest music in the world. When we are not in harmony with ourselves, all things seem out of tune.

The play concluded at length. We say at length, thinking of Dora Wilmington, for it had appeared far too short for many there; and Mrs. Howard proposed their returning home without waiting for the pantomime. Dora, weary and heart-sick, longed to be alone; but she was not selfish, and when she looked at Caroline's bright, happy face, as she sat laughing and chatting with her lover, Edward Grey, although wondering that she could look so happy, she shrank from breaking up the merry party. Mrs. Howard's glance followed hers, and she smiled.

"My good little Dora!" whispered she affec tionately, "when will you learn to think of yourself instead of others?"

"Oh, do not call me good: pray do not!"

"Then I will scold, instead of praising you; and indeed you half deserve it for not saying at once that you had a bad headache, and we would all have remained at home together.”

"Well, what is it to be? Are we to wait for the pantomime, or not?" asked Mr. Howard.

Every one looked at Dora, but none could tell the fearful importance of that apparently trifling decision. Caroline's pleading glance settled the question, and they remained.

"You are a dear, good girl!" whispered she, as they changed places in order that Dora might be more in the shade," and I promise to explain everything for you to Vincent to-morrow, and take all the blame of your being here on myself, for in truth it was entirely my fault. So set your heart at rest, and think no more about it."

Dora thanked her with a smile, and really felt more cheerful. "This time to-morrow night," thought she," and Vincent and my dear father will have forgiven me. It will be all over then.”

Alas! who can tell what a day, or an hour, may bring forth! "This time to-morrow night," is a phrase to be uttered with trembling!

The last act of the pantomime had begun. All was gaiety and excitement. Dora forgot her headache, or, rather, her heart-ache, and laughed and talked with the rest. The orchestra sent forth sounds of harmony, and she wondered how she could have thought them harsh and discordant. Conscience slumbered at its post, and pleasure reigned triumphant. Presently some slight confusion was perceived on the stage, and a shower of sparks fell from above. Some were startled, and others thought it part of the scenic exhibition. Caroline was heard to tell her lover that she liked a good display of fireworks, above all things! Mrs. Howard, who could see more from the position which she occupied, suddenly turned pale.

"Something has happened!" exclaimed she. "They are tearing down the scenery!"

Several voices cried out that there was no danger; but a monent afterwards, the manager came forward and told them that the house was on fire! pointing to the ceiling as he spoke, where the flames were spreading with fearful rapidity. Dora sank down trembling; she looked upon this fearful calamity as a judgment sent from Heaven on her disobedience; while Caroline's wild screams were lost in the loud wailing cry that burst simultaneously from a hundred lips. In a moment all was appalling horror and distress.

"Vincent, my boy," said Mr. Howard, endeavouring to speak calmly, "look after Dora; I will take care of your mother. And Edward Grey of our precious Caroline! God bless you, my children, and have you in His keeping!"

He was a hale, hearty old man; and lifting up the fainting form of his wife, he bore her away as if she had been a young child. Edward followed with the shrieking Caroline; while Dora, silent and conscience-stricken, went with her lover; but the two latter were soon separated from the rest, and borne backwards by the struggling crowd. Again and again they essayed to press onward; but with no better success. Vincent glanced into the pale, resolute face of his companion, and whispered praises of her courage; but it was the resolution of despair. Those who were in the pit and galleries escaped easily; while the inmates of the boxes, owing to the peculair construction of the house, confused and bewildered, and swaying alternately backwards and forwards, only obstructed each other's way. In order to gain them it had been necessary to descend into a long passage, and then ascend again by an angular staircase; but now all was darkness, for the light had been extinguished by the smouldering vapour, and the people knew not in which direction to turn. A lurid glance shone through the chinks and crevices of that long narrow passage, choked up with human beings, and enveloped in hot scorching smoke, that burst at last into flames. The shrieks of agony and despair were appalling.

Vincent paused a moment with his half fainting

burden, near one of the upper windows. They could hear the bell tolling, and the cries of the people in the street below; while a current of cold air came refreshingly through the aperture. Vincent," whispered Dora, lifting up her languid head from his bosom, "you had been safe at home this night but for me. I came here contrary to my father's positive commands, and my disobedience has destroyed us all!"

66

'God is merciful, dearest !" replied Vincent, as he bent down to kiss her burning brow. I hope to save you yet, if it is His will; if not, may he pardon us both this and all our sins, for the Redeemer's sake!"

"Amen!" murmured Dora; and she felt soothed even in that hour of wild and bitter agony, to think that he knew all; and in listening to his gentle, encouraging words, and lowbreathed prayers to Him who could alone preserve them.

Again they moved, or were rather borne along by the living mass, some mounted upon the backs and shoulders of the crowd, and thereby increasing its stifling pressure. Dora felt the arms of her lover release their hold-his eyes were closed-and a cold perspiration stood upon his white brow; but he was too closely wedged in to fall, and was carried forward unconsciously, with the miserable girl still clinging to his neck. Again they paused near an open window. Dora drew her lover towards it with supernatural strength, and the crowd swept on, leaving them in its narrow recess. As she had hoped, the cold air revived him, and he opened his eyes, and tried to smile upon her. Several of the women's dresses had caught fire, and the flames spread rapidly. Despairing of obtaining egress by the proper way, the windows were now eagerly sought, and many, even from the very highest, leapt out into the street with their clothes on fire, and perished thus; several were severely injured, while a few escaped unhurt. Those who had succeeded in making their way into the air, cried up to the sufferers at the windows, and held out their arms to save them. While many a familiar name was shrieked out into the night air, and heard even above the tolling of the bells, and the crackling of the burning mass.

"My father! my poor father!" exclaimed Dora, wringing her hands. But Vincent had forgotten all save her. He felt that his own strength was rapidly failing, and but one hope remained.

"You must leap out," said he," and quickly, or they will tear us from the window!"

"Vincent, I will not leave you!"

"I will follow you, dear one! God be with you, my poor Dora!" He assisted her to climb up, but it was not the height from which she had to leap that made her turn lingeringly back to clasp her arms about his neck, and kiss his cold forehead. Impatient voices from behind warned her that there was no time to be lost; and letting go her hold, she fell rather than sprang into the crowd below.

Vincent watched her with clasped hands and

eager eyes. He saw her kneel down, as if she had no strength to stand, and fix her gaze upon the high window where he stood, half suffocated and powerless, as though his limbs had been bound with an iron chain.

"Vincent! Vincent!" shrieked the agonized girl.

He heard her, and stretched out his hands feebly towards the spot. The next moment the crowd had torn him from his place of refuge, and carried him onward to destruction!

This dreadful catastrophe, for many of the particulars of which we are indebted to the thrilling description given by Dunlop, in his "History of the American Stage," actually occurred at Richmond, in the United States, in the year 1811. The scenes which we have related form but a mere episode in the tear-stained records of that memorable night; and the actors in them have passed away.

Friday, the 27th of December, was a day of mourning in Richmond. The banks and stores were closed; a law was passed, prohibiting amusements of every kind for four months, and a day set apart for humiliation and prayer. Our readers may not have forgotten that Dora Wilmington's birthday was on the 27th of December, an anniversary long and anxiously looked forward to by many; and to celebrate which a loving band of friends and relatives had been invited--but they came not! The house was empty and deserted. Mr. Wilmington had gone over to help comfort his old friend Howard, but the bereaved father knew him not. Mrs. Howard lay upon a couch in the same room. Outwardly she was uninjured by the late terrible catastrophe, and it was past the physician's skill to discover or heal a broken heart! By her side knelt a female form, with a young, fair face, and hair white as snow.

"My children! my lost children!" exclaimed Mrs. Howard, moaning, and wringing her hands. "My sweet Caroline! My noble boy! Come nearer to me, Dora-nearer still. Now tell me once again every word that he said-and how it was he perished!"

Spare me, mother!" said the shrinking Dora. Oh spare me, or I shall go mad!"

"Poor child! Poor child! Forgive me!" And Mrs. Howard laid that young, white head upon her bosom, and wept long and soothingly-but Dora could not weep.

The bereaved parents did not long survive the loss of their children; and every one said that it was a mercy, when they saw them borne to the grave. But many were the tears shed at the early death of Dora Wilmington, while a few who knew her sad story, strove to improve the opportunity by relating it to their children, as a warning against the sin of disobedience.